Page 19 of Filthy Rich

A chuckle in my ear. “How disappointing. I hoped you’d remember my voice.”

And he hangs up on me, leaving me with a pounding heart and a mad scramble to get myself together and meet him at the casino before he disappears again?—

Hang on. I can’t go. I’ve got nothing to wear.

I glance down at my white polo shirt and khaki skirt, a sad little Cinderella feeling a tinge of despair in the absence of a fairy godmother. I brought a couple of thrifted summer dresses just in case Mrs. Hooper doesn’t require me to wear my little work uniform every day, but if I’m going to the casino…

My gaze lands on the blue scarf Mrs. Hooper just gave me.

Perfect.

I snatch it up and head for the bathroom, determined to be my own damn fairy godmother and make myself a sarong.

CHAPTER SIX

LUCIEN

I wait for her at the bottom of the curved staircase in the atrium outside the casino, too wired to stand still. Luckily, I spot her before she sees me and stop my pacing in time to look like a cool cat. I put my hands in my pockets and watch her, my pulse thumping hard enough for me to hear it in my ears.

Damn, she looks good.

She’s changed into another sexy little dress, filmy and blue this time, with a deep slit right up the front that reveals a nice stretch of her toned legs as she descends. It’s a scarf, I realize. A giant scarf tied behind her neck. And it works; I can’t think when I’ve seen anything sexier. The Chuck Taylors are gone, replaced with flat sandals that reveal toenails painted a provocatively innocent peachy color.

Her hair is up, one of those messy ponytails that reveals the sweet curve of a woman’s neck and the thrilling expanse of her shoulders. Her eyes are sparkly, her cheeks rosy, her lips semi-smiling as though she could possibly be as excited as I am that we’re seeing each other again.

The sight of her locks me down tight, making it impossible to breathe. To think. To speak.

I can only want. And there’s enough want to fill up every drop of my overheated blood.

It’s all worth it, I realize in that dizzying second. The scuttled meeting, the international stalking, the annoying shopping and the unplanned cruise vacation. All the machinations and the expense. To see her like this? To have a chance with her? To take a brief but well-deserved break from the steaming pile of nothingness that constitutes my life? To feel this sort of interest in something—someone—again?

I’d do it all again. I’m not sorry.

She sees me just then, breaking into the kind of glorious smile that probably made Odysseus think it was a great idea to steal Helen of Troy.

I’m more than happy enough to smile back, but I can’t move. I’m stuck in the middle of the battlefield between the two parts of myself. The part that feels as though it’s breaking out of a concrete casing and getting its first breath of fresh air in years. And the part that feels as though it’s coiling tighter and tighter, the tension threatening to cause a disastrous explosion.

My heart sinks as the realization sets in. I don’t know what it is about this one woman, but I don’t just want to hook up with her and be done with it so I can move on to the next meeting or the next woman. I want to devour her. To incinerate her. I want to touch, feel and consume her until there’s nothing left but our sweaty flesh as it rubs together, and my name pours out of her mouth. I want to imprint myself on her, because I can’t shake the terrible certainty that she’s already left her imprint somewhere on me. It’s a bad feeling, one I wish I could erase.

Because I fuck, yeah, but I don’t do romance, and I damn sure don’t do feelings.

Not after Ravenna.

Too bad I don’t seem to get a say here.

So the battle wages on inside me as she arrives at the bottom of the steps.

Which part of me will win? No idea. But it’s not looking good for the part of me that wants to remain civilized. No matter how much I want to postpone the moment where she loses that smile when she looks at me and instead realizes that I’m not worth one minute of her time.

“Hi,” she says, smile fading as she stops.

“Hi,” I say, my voice gruff from all the inner turmoil.

She frowns, studying me closely. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me.” She claps her hands to her cheeks and makes a sad face. “You got bad news from home, didn’t you? The valet scratched the Bugatti. I’m so sorry.”

Everything inside me instantaneously eases down.

See? This is why I like having her around.

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